


Smoothe

by atmilliways



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: And there was only one back room, Anxiety Noodle, Check out these two pine trees, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), In which Crowley is Very Smoothe, Mutual Pining, Other, This is very silly really, What Are Hips, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways
Summary: Crowley does something ridiculous, but has to pretend it was completely on purpose in order to save face.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37
Collections: Choofe Your Faces





	Smoothe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitterandtrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterandtrash/gifts).



> Rel, I hope you like my attempt at making two of your drawings that have nothing to do with each other . . . have something to do with each other. Now with 50% more anxiety noodle!

There was something inexplicably comforting about Aziraphale’s back room that Crowley had always scrupulously avoided thinking about too closely. Too much of a risk. If he were to have been honest with himself, he would’ve been forced to admit—

But then, the whole point had been avoiding honesty. Demon, after all. 

A few weeks after the Apocalypse that Wasn’t, Crowley found himself alone in the back of the shop while Aziraphale finished gently shooing away customers for the afternoon. He also found himself assessing risk. With both Upstairs and Downstairs apparently looking pointedly the other way in an effort to pretend that nothing had happened and neither he nor Aziraphale existed. . . . What was the harm in being honest?

Fine. Honesty. He could be honest now, bless it. 

Crowley liked the back room because it was Aziraphale’s. It smelled like the angel, had his indelible aura pressed into every sheet of paper and piece of parchment. It looked like him, worn around the edges and a little musty, but filled with things built to last. In it, Crowley was acutely aware of the fact that he was the only demon who had ever merited an invitation, that Aziraphale _wanted_ him there. 

It was the whole shop, really, but the back room held more of an illusion of privacy that appealed to the serpent in him. Even lacking a door, the bookshelves shielded it from the shop enough to make it feel like a haven; a place to coil up in the dimness and feel safe. 

Sprawled on the couch as he was, Crowley could just hear Aziraphale chatting with someone in the distance and recognized the signs of the angel being distracted into a detailed conversation about his favorite bookbinding techniques. That likely meant that Crowley was in for quite a wait for his friend to return, but he didn’t particularly mind. They had all the time in the world these days. 

Crowley slouched further down and realized that, in having some free time on his hands, honesty about that Big Inescapable Truth that he’d been ignoring for centuries might have been unwise. It was harder now to ignore Aziraphale’s scent that laced every breath he took. Harder to ignore the yearning fondness that came with observing how easily the angel could be distracted sometimes. Harder to avoid thinking about _wanting_ —and oh, how Crowley wanted. 

Usually what a demon wanted most, what it missed with the heat and fierceness of a thousand suns, was its lost Grace. Crowley had been the same until precisely two minutes into his first conversation with Aziraphale, standing beside him atop the walls of Eden, and then something had begun to shift. 

He _needed_. And hey, he had never been one to deny himself earthly pleasures— _demon_ , after all. A quick stretch to peek over the top of the couch and it looked like the coast was all clear; a glare from behind dark lenses (backed by a small demonic miracle) ensured that it would stay that way, at least as far as any browsing humans were concerned. Slipping back down below the brim, he sent both his glasses and every stitch of clothing on his corporation elsewhere for the time being. 

The throw between Crowley’s skin and the leather couch was so soft. He rolled over to press his cheek to it and inhaled. 

_Aziraphale._

His hand closed around his cock, black polished thumb sliding over the head to bring it to full attention. This would have to be quick and dirty, he knew, but that was fine. With Heaven and Hell ignoring them, the only person who might catch him at it was Aziraphale himself, and while Crowley was terrified of that particular unknown, the prospect stoked the fire in his lower belly far higher than his own touch alone, risk and safety all at once. 

Of course, Aziraphale’s hands on him wouldn’t be like this. They’d be softer, warmer, maybe even a bit tingly with holiness. But Crowley has seen enough starving in the desert in his time to imagine the angel just as rushed as he is—hungry for it, devouring a tasty dish in orderly but oversized mouthfuls. 

The couch provided a comforting and intimate pressure against Crowley’s front, laying down against it the way he was, but it wasn’t right for the image in his head. Biting down on an impatient whine, he wriggled and slid over the leather edge on one hip. The throw came with him; along with the Persian rug, it cushioned his human tailbone from a bruising landing. Only then did Crowley feel properly on display. Wanton. Cheeks reddening to match his aching demonhood as he clapped his free hand over his mouth to muffle a gasped “Ngk—!”

[1]

And there he was, with no sense of how much time had or hadn’t passed, just about to a much more serious tipping point, when the tinkle of the shop bell cut through the static in his head. He froze, straining to listen, and caught the unmistakable sounds of Aziraphale locking up and bustling toward the back room. 

Crowley was well aware it was best not to panic, but he did it anyway. 

_Stop touching yourself,_ he shrieked internally at his baser instincts. 

_Trousers,_ he thought frantically. _Need trousers._

 _Gotta be smooth,_ he also told himself. Aziraphale mustn’t suspect, lest it turn out to be all too vulgar for his just-enough-of-a-bastard sensibilities. 

He snapped his fingers. 

  
  


Aziraphale was quite pleased with himself for talking the last remaining human out of the shop in such a timely fashion. After all, it would be terribly rude to leave Crowley waiting for too long—they had all the time in the world, of course, but even so. It would be dreadful to let the old boy think his presence was going unappreciated, when truthfully it was the highlight of Aziraphale’s day. 

“So, my dear,” he began as he rounded the last row of bookshelves, “about that Chateau Mouton Rothschild—”

“. . . .Ssssup, angel.”

The sight that greeted him was. . . . Well, he simply didn’t know where to start. For one thing, the couch throw was puddled on the floor. For another, Crowley was a snake from the waist up, sunglasses balanced across his face despite not having ears nor a proper nose to help secure them, and looming slightly taller than was usual. 

[2]

“My goodness,” Aziraphale said, settling into vague fretfulness out of habit. “Was the temperature not comfortable for you?”

Crowley, who did sometimes prefer his snake form during particularly stuffy summers, didn’t currently have arms. Nevertheless, the way he shuffled his feet gave the impression of wanting to shove his hands deep in his pockets and shrug. “Guessssss sssso,” the demon muttered. “But mosssstly I wasss . . . in the mood to be sssmooth.”

Something about all this was very odd. 

Aziraphale had no idea why his friend was using such a self-deprecating tone, but decided against pressing him. If he did, Crowley might get so uncomfortable as to decide to leave. The strange appearance wasn’t really a problem, as long as it was still Crowley, for all that his more frequently worn corporation held more of an illusion of familiarity that appealed to the collector in Aziraphale. Even lacking that, the familiar demonic essence nearby made him feel unaccountably content; quite prepared to relax and spend the rest of the evening chatting and imbibing away.

“Well this is certainly not your usual choice of aspect. . . . Still,” the angel said with as much brightness as he could muster—which was considerable—“whatever floats your skiff, my dear. Would you still like the wine? Can snakes have wine? Or, perhaps I could rustle up some local rodents, if you’d prefer. They’re not allowed in the shop, naturally, but I believe there might be a few in the attic.”

“Wine isss fine. Not like I’m a regular ssssnake anyway.” Crowley eyed the couch, then leaned his scaled half over it and flopped, coiling the parts that could coil and folding his legs until he was successfully established in the corner next to the couch arm. It wasn’t particularly graceful, but afterwards Aziraphale felt he understood Crowley’s odd relationship with human hips a tiny bit better. 

Two pours of a bottle and one discrete snap of his fingers (instantly rendering the throw folded neatly somewhere not underfoot) later, Aziraphale balanced one glass on the couch arm where Crowley could easily reach it with his tongue. He sat with his own, not on his usual chair but rather daringly on the couch next to the demon. And if his cheeks were a little warm as he did so, knowing this was something they hadn’t done before, well. He wasn’t sure if Crowley’s eyes were designed to notice that variation in color, so perhaps it would go unnoticed. 

“Comfortable?” he asked gently, genuinely hoping that this wasn’t too forward and wouldn’t make Crowley even more restless than he already seemed to be. 

Snakes definitely couldn’t smile, but, as Crowley had pointed out, he was hardly a regular snake. 

“Sssure, angel,” the demon replied just as gently, shifting slightly as he relaxed a bit more into his corner, and Aziraphale felt himself relax as well. “It’ssss perfect.”

* * *

1[Quickdraw of a quick wank](https://twitter.com/spicy_carrot/status/1244387741493854209?s=20) on Twitter.Return to text

2Reverse Naga Crowley.Return to text


End file.
